She was Neva Wynde, the owner of Hawkhurst, one of the greatest heiresses in England, and now the object of the sinister machinations of her handsome step-mother and Craven Black. Her school-days were over, and she was on her way to a home she had not visited for years, and to a guardian whom she did not know, and who was secretly her enemy. She had emerged from the pleasant security of the school-room into a region of perils. A premonition of the dangers before her seemed almost to come upon her now, and into her glowing eyes crept a look of sorrowful yearning, and of passionate protest against the friendlessness of her lot. A few feet distant from her, also leaning upon the railing, stood a young man, whose gaze, ostensibly fixed upon the French coast, now and then rested upon the girl’s speaking face with an expression of keen admiration and interest. He thought in his own soul that he had never seen a being so fresh, so dainty, so pure, so rarely beautiful. She seemed utterly alone. No one inquired how she felt, nor offered her a seat, nor looked after her, and her young admirer wondered if she were all alone in the world, as she seemed. He was speculating upon the subject when a sudden lurch of the boat upon the short, chopping Channel waves, caused Neva to involuntarily loosen her hold upon the railing, and pitched her abruptly along the deck toward him. He sprang forward and caught her in his arms. She recovered her equilibrium upon the instant, and again grasped the railing, blushing, confused, and murmuring her thanks for his civility. “The Channel is rough to-day,” remarked the young gentleman. “Shall I not find you a seat?” “Thank you, no,” returned Neva, in her sweet, low, cultured voice. “I prefer standing.” The words were simple enough, and her manner was quiet and reserved, but her voice went to the young man’s heart, thrilling it with a strange sensation. He did not attempt a retreat, and Neva looked up at him with something of surprise in her glorious red-brown eyes. As he encountered her full gaze, his face flushed, his eyes glowed, and a warm smile curved his mouth. “I beg your pardon,” he said, “but are you not Miss Wynde of Hawkhurst?” Neva bowed assent, with an increasing surprise. “I was sure, when I met your full glance, that you were Neva Wynde,” cried the young gentleman. “You do not remember me, I see; and yet, when you went away to that odious Paris school you and I parted with tears, and you promised to be true to me, little Neva. And you have forgotten me--” “No, no,” cried the young girl, an answering glow in her face, and her eyes shining like suns. “Is it really you, Arthur? How you have changed!” She held out her hand to him, and he clasped it with a warm, lingering pressure. Her eyes scanned his face in an earnest scrutiny, and she blushed again when she saw how handsome he was, and how like he was to an ideal she had long cherished in the very depths of her young soul.